


Watch Me Run

by crutchie_394



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, How Do I Tag, I wrote it as platonic but it's still Pretty Gay, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other newsies mentioned, Past Child Abuse, can be read as jackcrutchie if you want, i mean no one is stopping you, it's just an angsty crutchie backstory though, one (1) minor swear word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 19:18:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13910469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crutchie_394/pseuds/crutchie_394
Summary: “You wanna bust your other leg too?” Jack demanded as he grasped Crutchie's arm and hoisted him back onto the cold grates of the roof.“No,” Crutchie protested, glancing down at the fire escape below them as he waited for his racing heart to slow. “I wanna go down.”~~~The Santa Fe Prologue from Crutchie's point of view.





	Watch Me Run

**Author's Note:**

> Woahhhh so my first story (Call Me Joe, go check it out if you haven't read it) rocketed past 100 visits in the first week?? Chill out guys?? I appreciate all the feedback and support so much, so thank you, thank you, thank you
> 
> Anyway, I'm pretty bad at angst, but your author was having Emotions™ again so I just projected onto fictional characters (wouldn't be the first time). please just put up with me and read this trash.

Crutchie’s eyes fluttered open, and he peered up at the night sky. There was a sliver of sun threatening to peek over the horizon, but the moon was still shimmering, and Jack was still blissfully asleep on his mat on the other side of the roof. There was no noise of the fellas bustling to get ready; no shouts as Finch shot pebbles at his bunkmates to wake them up, no whoops from Mike and Ike rolling around on the floor.

Sighing, Crutchie grabbed his old, worn crutch from where it was leaning against the railing and used it to rise to his feet, curling his fingers around the towel tied to the wood. As quietly as he could, he started to slip into his shoes, wedge his hat on backward, button his — 

“Hey, what’re you doin’?” Damn. Jack had heard him again. Did he have a sixth ‘Crutchie is leaving’ sense or something? “The morning bell ain’t rung yet, go back to sleep.”

“I wanna beat the other fellas to the streets,” Crutchie said, tugging on his threadbare, hand-me-down vest, speckled with paint from when Jack had owned it. He winced at a twinge in his leg and rubbed at his thigh. “I don’t want anyone to see I ain’t been walkin’ so good.”

“Aw, quit gripin’,” Jack scoffed. He sat up to roll up a piece of scrap paper that he must have been sketching on before bed, grumbling the whole time. “You know how many guys fake a limp for sympathy. That bum leg of yours? That’s a gold mine.”

Crutchie hobbled across the rooftop towards the rusty ladder. “Someone gets the idea I can’t make it on my own, they’ll lock me up in the Refuge for good,” he said as Jack stuffed the paper in the canister tucked in the corner. He knew it was damn well true — he had seen it happen to other kids. Once, Jack had had to convince a bull to let Specs go after he had cracked his glasses and spent the day stumbling into walls (“Nah, mister, he can make it around just fine! Just a little wobbly, ’s all.”). “Now, be a pal, Jack. Help me down.”

Then, as he eased himself down onto the first rung, his bum leg slipped off the slick metal. His stomach plummeted, and he let out a loud, involuntary yelp as Jack scrambled towards him, alerted by his shout for help. 

“You wanna bust your other leg too?” he demanded as he grasped Crutchie's arm and hoisted him back onto the cold grates of the roof. 

“No,” Crutchie protested, glancing down at the fire escape below them as he waited for his racing heart to slow. “I wanna go down.”

“Well,” Jack said, releasing Crutchie’s arm and rubbing at his nose without a care in the world — well, not a care in the world now that his best friend wasn’t in danger of certain death. “You’ll be down there soon enough. Take a moment. Drink in my… my penthouse!” Jack waved his arms vaguely. “High above the stinkin’ streets of New York.” 

“You’re crazy,” Crutchie said, jabbing his finger at Jack, who had taken to leaning over the railing above his head. 

“Why, ‘cause I like a breath of fresh air?” Jack said. He ruffled Crutchie’s hair as he wandered back towards his sleeping mat. “‘Cause I like seein’ the sky and the stars?”

“You’re seein’ stars alright,” Crutchie muttered as he adjusted his cap and clambered to his feet. Jack was looking out at the moon high above their heads, and Crutchie wondered for a second if he was hearing anything but the thoughts that seemed to be swimming around in his head a mile a minute.

“Them streets down there,” Jack said, ignoring the quip. He glanced at Crutchie with a humorless smirk. “They sucked the life right outta my old man.”

Crutchie kept his eyes trained on his friend. It wasn’t often Jack talked about his life before the Lodging House — hell, none of the fellas did —, and when he did, it always left an unsettling tension hanging in the air, but Crutchie liked to listen anyway. It was a distraction, a cool reminder of what could have been.

“Years of rotten jobs,” Jack went on, “stomped on by bosses — and when they finally broke him, they tossed him to the curb just like yesterday’s paper. Well, they ain’t doin’ that to me.”

“But everyone wants to come to New York,” Crutchie reasoned. 

“New York’s fine for those who got a big, strong door to lock it out,” Jack said cryptically. Sometimes, Crutchie swore he didn’t know half of what he was saying. “But I’m tellin’ you, Crutchie. There’s a whole ‘nother way out there.” He jerked his head in Crutchie’s direction. “So you keep your small life in the big city. Give me a big life in a small town.” 

As Jack started to hum out a familiar tune, Crutchie drew his mouth into a thin line and sighed through his nose. Santa Fe. That town out west. He wasn’t sure how it had entered his life — or Jack’s, for that matter. It could have been in a newspaper article, or an abandoned pamphlet in the streets, but one day, just a few weeks after Crutchie had been shown to the Lodging House, Jack had just started rambling about the place, and he hadn’t stopped since.

Jack tore his eyes away from the sky. “If you want,” he was saying, gesturing at Crutchie imploringly, “I’ll betcha you could see it, too.” He strode across the rooftop and put a hand over Crutchie’s eyes, making him start, and Jack slung his free arm over his shoulders. 

“Close your eyes — come with me,” he began, bringing his hand down. Crutchie humored him and kept his eyes closed. “Where it’s clean and green and pretty. And they went and made a city outta clay.”

Crutchie smiled. Now, born from Jack’s words, he could see buildings, tall enough to touch the moon. The sun was shining brighter than he had ever seen in the dreary Manhattan sky, and there were folks, smiling and opening their arms, welcoming him into a place where he could belong.

“Why, the minute that you get there, folks’ll walk right up and say, ‘Welcome home, son, welcome home to Santa Fe.’”

Jack’s arm went away, and Crutchie’s eyes shot open at the absence of pressure around his shoulders. Jack was living in the moment — his arms were waving through the air, there was a longing grin gracing his lips, and his dark eyes were shut, like if he squeezed them together tightly enough, he could open them with a ticket for the next train out west in his hand. 

“You got folks there?” Crutchie said. 

“I got no folks,” Jack huffed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Nowhere. You?” 

Folks? A mom and a dad? Yeah, Crutchie had folks. Folks that tossed him out with a shriveled leg from untreated polio, because what did they need a kid that couldn’t walk for, right? He shuddered at the unwanted memories that pushed to the front of his mind, busying himself by making his way across the rooftop to punch Jack in the arm.

“I don’t need folks,” he assured, “I’ve got friends.” 

Jack smirked and was silent for a whole of three seconds, processing the words, before his eyes lit up and he turned to Crutchie. “Hey, how’s about you come with me?” he said eagerly. He gestured to Crutchie’s bum leg and paced to the other side of the roof. “No one cares about no gimp leg in Santa Fe! You just hop a palomino, you’re ridin’ in style!”

Crutchie scoffed, and the thoughts of his father, leaving him as a begging, pleading mess in the middle of Manhattan, were replaced with the idea of swinging up on a horse and riding off into the distance.

“Yeah, picture me,” he said, spreading his arms apart like he could create the image in front of him. “Ridin’ in style.”

“Hey, I’ll bet a few months of clean air and you can toss that crutch for good!” Jack crowed, his face spreading into a slow smile. 

Crutchie could see it — and he was beaming too. Running through the wild west on his own two legs, swapping tales around the fire with Jack at his side. Working on a ranch, never having to worry about how many papers he sold or the next time he would get to eat — just feeling the fresh breeze blowing through his hair and nipping at his face. 

“Watch me stand!” he said. “Watch me run…”

Then, the images flew away and reality caved in, crashing down like a douse of cold water, like when Race had dumped a bucket of rainwater on Albert on a hot summer day. He felt the smile fading, just like his dreams, because that was all they would ever be — dreams. He would be stuck in this life forever, and a frown creased over his face at the thought. He heard Jack protesting his uncharacteristic negativity, but he didn’t care. He turned away to face the streets. There was a clanging of metal, and an arm snaked itself around his chest. 

“Don’t you know that we’s a family?” Jack coaxed. “Would I let you down, huh?” The arm shook Crutchie a little. “No way.” There was a dramatic sigh, and his friend — his brother — leaned heavily against him, staring out at the city that was now alight with the rising sun. “Just hold on, kid. ‘Till that train makes Santa Fe.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wow I didn't mean to make this gay but I'm stuck between Jack and Crutchie: brotp and jackcrutchie: otp so why not have the best of both worlds?
> 
> Prompts, requests & such are always welcome, and i will document the day i cry with joy over comments because it will be soon. Thanks for reading!


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